Awkwardly and roughly, she refastened her dressing gown.
“Armelle Caussin opened the trunk of her car, I checked the contents of the suitcase, while the girls played in the shade, near your father and Jean-Louis. There were plenty of things missing, and I had to throw away her cheap or worn clothes, replace them with new ones.”
Philippe imagined his mother calling Armelle Caussin on a false pretext and rifling through his daughter’s little dresses. This right to interfere that she’d always claimed disgusted him. He felt like strangling this woman who had made him despise others. She lowered her eyes to avoid seeing the look of hatred he was directing at her.
“At around 4 P.M., the Caussins left for the château with the children. Your father and I didn’t want to start driving back to Charleville before nightfall, because of the heat. We decided to stay in the village. We returned to the café for a bite to eat. When I went to the restroom, I saw Léonine’s doudou next to the sink. I knew she couldn’t fall asleep without it.”
Chantal Toussaint grimaced.
“It was filthy . . . I washed it with soap and water—in the heat it would dry fast.”
She went to sit down on the sofa, as if the words were too heavy a burden. Her husband followed her, like a faithful mutt expecting a reward, a look, a sign of affection, which would never come.
“We entered the castle without any difficulty: no one around, no supervision, doors wide open. Léonine happened to be behind the first door we opened. She was already in bed. She was surprised to see us. When she saw her rabbit sticking out of my handbag, she smiled and discreetly grabbed it so the other girls wouldn’t see her. She must have looked everywhere for it, unable to say anything for fear of being made fun of.”
The mother started sobbing. Her husband slipped an arm around her shoulders, she slowly pushed it away; used to this, he withdrew it.
“I asked the girls if they would like me to tell them a story. They said yes. I read them a Grimm fairy tale, Tom Thumb. They all fell asleep straight away. Before leaving, I kissed my granddaughter one last time.”
“And the water heater?!” Philippe screamed.
His parents, in tears, cowered pitifully before their son’s rage.
“What do you mean, water heater, what water heater?” his mother finally muttered between sobs.
“The one in the bathroom! In the room, there was a bathroom! And a fucking water heater! Was it you who touched it?!”
The father opened his mouth for the first time and let out, with a sigh:
“Oh, that . . . ”
At that moment, Philippe would have given anything for him to say nothing, as usual. Or say a prayer, any one. But for one hour, just one hour, the man had felt useful in his wife’s life, instead of just hanging around, waiting for her to finish reading the story of Tom Thumb.
“Your mother asked Léonine whether she was sure she’d brushed her teeth before going to bed, she said yes, but another girl told us that no hot water came out of the tap, that the cold water had hurt her teeth. Your mother asked me to have a quick look, and indeed, I saw that the water heater was switched off, so I . . . ”
Philippe fell to his knees in front of his parents, grabbed his father by the collar of his dressing gown, with both hands, and implored him:
“Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up . . . ”
His parents froze. Philippe stammered a few more inaudible words, and then left the house as he had entered it, in silence.
When he got back on his bike, he knew he wouldn’t be taking the road back to the Brancion cemetery. He knew that he no longer had a home. Not tonight, not tomorrow. He had known it ever since he had asked Eloïse Petit to phone Violette and tell her that he hadn’t come to their meeting. Violette, who had stopped waiting for him long ago.
That morning, when he had announced to her that he wanted to start afresh, settle in the Midi, he had seen in her eyes that she was pretending to believe him. Today, he could no longer face her. He never wanted to look her in the eye again.
Chantal Toussaint ran out after him, in just her dressing gown, to reason with him. It was dangerous to be on the road in that state. He was too tired, done in, he must rest, she would get his bed ready, she hadn’t touched a thing in his room, not even his posters, she would cook him a beef stroganoff and the crème caramel he loved, tomorrow he’d be able to think more clearly and . . .
“I wish you had died at my birth, Mom. It would have been the luckiest thing in my life.”
He started his bike and, without thinking, went in the direction of Bron. In his rearview mirror, he saw his mother collapsing onto the pavement. He knew that his words had signed her death warrant. Today or tomorrow. And his father would follow. He always followed.
He felt nothing but the desire to be with Luc and Françoise and tell them everything. They would know what to do, they would find the right words, they would be able to keep him close, so he no longer had to explain himself to anyone. Return to being the child he had wanted to be: Luc’s. This life was done with.
91.
And when, taking my burial mound for a pillow,
A water nymph comes gently to doze,
clad in the skimpiest of costumes,
I apologize in advance to Jesus
if my cross’s shadow falls over her a touch
for a little posthumous happiness.
IRÈNE FAYOLLE’S JOURNAL
2013
I went into the cemetery lady’s house. She looked at me as one does a person one knows by sight but can’t place. She was alone, sitting at her table. She was leafing through a gardening catalogue.
“I’m just selecting my spring bulbs. Do you prefer narcissi, or croci? I love these yellow tulips.”
Her fingers fell on photos of clusters of flowers. So many varieties.
“Narcissi, I think I prefer narcissi. I also love flowers, I had a rose nursery, before.”
“Where was that?”
“In Marseilles.”
“Oh . . . I go to Marseilles every year, to the Calanque de Sormiou.”
“I used to go there with my son, Julien, when he was little. A long time ago.”
The cemetery lady smiled at me as though we shared a secret.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“I’d love a green tea.”
She got up to make my tea. I thought she must be around Julien’s age. She could have been my daughter. I don’t think I would have liked having a daughter. I don’t know what I could have told her, how I would have advised her, directed her. A boy’s a bit like a wild flower, a hawthorn, he grows on his own, as long as he has enough to eat, to drink, to wear. As long as you tell him he’s handsome, strong. A boy grows well when he has a father. A girl is more complicated.
The cemetery lady is beautiful. She was wearing a straight black skirt and a fine, gray polo-neck sweater. I thought her elegant. Delicate. She almost made me regret not having had a daughter. She put loose tea into a teapot and strained it. Then she put some honey on the table. It felt good in her home. It smelled good. She told me that she loved roses. Their scent.
“You live alone?”
“Yes.”
“At this cemetery, I come to visit Gabriel Prudent.”
“He’s buried in avenue 19, in the Cedars section. Is that right?”
“Yes. Do you know all the locations of the deceased?”
“Most of them. And he was a great lawyer, there was a crowd at his funeral. Which year was it, again?”
“2009.”
The cemetery lady got up to fetch a register, the one for 2009, and she looked up Gabriel’s name. So it’s true, she does write everything down in books. She read it out loud to me: “February 18th, 2009, funeral of Gabriel Prudent, torrential rain. There were a h
undred and twenty-eight people at the burial. His ex-wife was present, as were his two daughters, Marthe Dubreuil and Cloé Prudent. No flowers or wreaths, at the request of the deceased. The family had a plaque engraved, saying: ‘In homage to Gabriel Prudent, a courageous lawyer. “Courage, for a lawyer, is essential, without which the rest counts for nothing; talent, culture, knowledge of the law, all is of use to the lawyer. But without courage, at the decisive moment, there remain merely words, a succession of sentences that shine brightly and then die.” (Robert Badinter)’ No priest. No cross. The cortege only stayed for half an hour. When the two funeral directors had finished lowering the coffin into the vault, everyone left. Still raining very heavily.”
The cemetery lady poured me another cup of tea. I asked her to read her notes on Gabriel’s funeral again. She did so, willingly.
I imagined the people surrounding Gabriel’s coffin. I imagined the umbrellas, the warm, dark clothes. The scarves and the tears.
I told the cemetery lady that Gabriel got angry when people said he was courageous. That there was no courage involved in telling a magistrate that he was an idiot in a roundabout way. That courage was going every day, after work, to Porte de la Chapelle, to distribute meals to the needy, or hiding Jews in one’s home in 1942. Gabriel was always repeating to me that he had no courage, that he took no risks.
She asked me whether we had spoken a lot, Gabriel and me. I said yes. And that this thing about Gabriel hating courage should remain between her and me. I didn’t want the people who thought they had done well putting those words on his memorial plaque to know that they had got it wrong.
The cemetery lady smiled at me.
“No problem. Everything said between these walls remains secret.”
I felt I could trust her, and I spoke to her as if she had added a truth serum to my tea.
“I visit Gabriel’s tomb two or three times a year, to shake a snow globe that I left close to his name. I cut out newspaper articles for him, legal columns that interested him, and I read them to him. I give him news of the world, of his world, at any rate. Cases that are criminal, passionate, eternal. I visit the tomb of my husband, Paul, more frequently, at the Saint-Pierre cemetery in Marseilles. Each time, I ask him to forgive me. Because I will be buried beside Gabriel. My ashes will be placed beside him. Gabriel made all the arrangements with his solicitor, as have I. No one will be able to object to it. We weren’t married. You know, I wanted to come here to tell you that the day my son, Julien, finds out about it, it’s you he will come to question.”
“Why me?”
“When he discovers that my final wish was to rest beside Gabriel, and not his father, he will want to understand. He will want to know who Gabriel Prudent was, and the first person he will ask will be you. Because the first person he will come across when he walks through the gates of this cemetery will be you. As I did, the first time I came.”
“Is there something in particular you would like me to tell him?”
“No. No, I’m sure you will find the right words. Or that, for once, Julien will find his own to speak to you. I’m sure you will know how to help him, support him.”
I was sorry to leave the cemetery lady. I knew it was the last time I would come to Brancion-en-Chalon. I got back on the road. I returned to Marseilles.
2016
I have finished my journal. I will soon be rejoining Gabriel. I know it. I can already detect the smell of his cigarettes. I can’t wait. When I think that, the last time we saw each other, we argued. It’s time to patch things up.
I remember her perfume. I no longer remember her face. Just her white hair, her skin, her fine hands, her raincoat. And especially her perfume. I remember the gentleness of that moment. And the words she applied to Gabriel. Her voice has remained with me, too, its echo, when she told me that, one day, her son would be coming to see me.
When Julien knocked on my door that first time, he made me forget Irène. I found him handsome, in his crumpled clothes. He didn’t look like his mother. She had the complexion of a blonde, smooth, fair, and delicate, whereas her son was typically dark, with messy hair and skin that had soaked up plenty of sun. I loved his tobacco hands touching me. But I was also too scared of them.
Before leaving for Marseilles, I phoned him several times, but his number just rang and rang. It was as if he no longer existed. I even rang his police station, I was told that he had left. But he could be written to, his mail was being forwarded.
What could I write to him?
Julien,
I’m crazy, I’m alone, I’m impossible. You believed me, and I did everything I could so you would.
Julien,
I was so happy in your car.
Julien,
I was so happy with you on my sofa.
Julien,
I was so happy with you in my bed.
Julien,
You are young. But I don’t think we care.
Julien,
You are too curious. I hate it when you act like a cop.
Julien,
Your son, I’d be up for him being my stepson.
Julien,
You really are my type of man. But, in fact, I’ve no idea. I imagine that you’re really my type of man.
Julien,
I miss you.
Julien,
I’m going to die if you don’t come back.
Julien,
I’m waiting for you. I’m hoping for you. I’m happy to change my habits if you’ll change yours.
Julien,
O.K.
Julien,
It was good, it was lovely.
Julien,
Yes.
Julien,
No.
Life has ripped out my roots. My spring is dead.
I close Irène’s journal with a heavy heart. The way one closes a novel one has fallen in love with. A novel that’s a friend from whom it’s hard to part, because one wants it close by, in arm’s reach. Deep down, I’m happy that Julien left me his mother’s journal in memory of them. When I’m back home, I’ll place it among the books I keep preciously on the shelves in my bedroom. In the meantime, I slip it into my beach bag.
It’s 10 A.M., I’m leaning against a rock, sitting on the white sand in the shade of an Aleppo pine. Here, the trees grow through the cracks in the rock. The cicadas began to sing when I closed Irène’s journal. The sun is already beating down. I can feel it prickling my toes. In summer, the sun here burns your skin in just a few minutes.
The holidaymakers with backpacks are starting to arrive, down the steep path. By midday, the little beach will be covered in towels, coolers, parasols. There aren’t many children at Sormiou. In high season, you can only access the creek on foot. You have to walk for a good hour, down from the Baumettes car park. It’s not easy for families. Often, the children who end up here have done the journey on their fathers’ shoulders, or they live in the chalets, or cabanons, during the holidays. They’re known as the “cabanoniers.” The word only exists in Marseilles, you won’t find it in any dictionaries.
Here, people are still allowed to smoke in the bars. The postmen sign for registered letters themselves when residents are out, so they won’t have to go and collect them. In Marseilles, nothing is done as it is elsewhere.
Yesterday evening, Célia remained with me for supper. She had prepared a seafood paella, which she warmed up in a large pan. In the meantime, I unpacked my blue suitcase, put my dresses on hangers. We took out the little wrought-iron garden table, put a cloth over it, filled two red carafes with water and rosé. We put lots of ice cubes in a yellow bowl, and added a farmhouse loaf and mismatched plates. Everything is mismatched at the chalet. Objects never seem to have reached here together. Célia and I relished the catching up, the swapping of silly stories, the golden rice and the well chilled rosé.
We talked so late that Célia stayed the night. She slept with me like she did that first time in Malgrange-sur-Nancy during the train strike. It was the first time she’d stayed over.
We carried on drinking rosé as we lay in bed. Célia lit two candles. Her grandfather’s furniture danced in the light. We left two windows open to create a draft. It felt lovely. It still smelled of paella. The walls had soaked up its aroma. It made me feel hungry again, I warmed myself up a little more. Célia didn’t want any. When I placed the empty plate on the floor, I saw Célia’s profile. Then her beautiful blue eyes, like two stars in the night. I blew out the candles.
“Célia, I have something to tell you. It’s going to keep you from sleeping, but since we’re on holiday, it doesn’t matter. And I really can’t not tell you about ‘this.’”
“ . . . ”
“Françoise Pelletier was the love of Philippe Toussaint’s life. It’s with her that he lived his last years. He met up with her the day he disappeared, in 1998. But that’s not all. I know why he disappeared. Why he never came back home. That night, it’s not the fire that killed the children . . . it’s Father Toussaint.”
Célia gripped my arm, and just whispered, “What?”
“He tinkered with an old water heater in the children’s room and switched it on. He didn’t know that it was strictly not to be touched. The appliance hadn’t been maintained for years. Carbon monoxide kills, it’s insidious, odorless . . . the girls died in their sleep.”
“Who told you that?”
“Françoise Pelletier. It’s Philippe Toussaint who told her everything. That’s why he never came home on the day he found out. He couldn’t look me in the eye anymore . . . Do you know that song by Michel Jonasz? ‘Tell me, tell me even that she left for someone other than me, but not because of me, tell me that, tell me that . . . ’”
Fresh Water for Flowers Page 40